


Together, in All Things

by sebviathan



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Cancer, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Post-Series, Suicide, sex but not written in detail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:24:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With death comes pain, just as well as truth and relief. So it's not ironic after all, that they both are happiest in their final days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together, in All Things

**Author's Note:**

> I finished watching House literally 3 days ago, and I couldn't stop thinking about what inevitably happened in those last five months. I'm crying still. Kill me.

_I'm going on a roadtrip for my last 5 months. I want to spend it alone. This is my goodbye, sorry it couldn't be in person. Don't call me. I'm throwing away my phone after this._

Once he makes sure that the message sent, Wilson sticks to his word and tosses his phone into the ocean. It was House's idea to do it this way—whether it was an impulsive decision for the sake of being a huge drama queen or because he honestly believes it's just the best way despite having to drive an hour to the coast, Wilson doesn't know. But he'd bet on the former.

He leans over the bridge for a moment, just long enough to watch it sink and then hear the clink of a cane on the railing next to him.

"Do I sense the return of Kyle Carraway?" There's a smirk in House's voice, but honestly, when isn't there.

"I wasn't that inconsiderate," he responds, ironically apathetic about whether or not what he's saying is true. "I said sorry. Besides,  _I'm_  the one dying."

"And they just lost two people in one day."

They both secretly think that the others probably find it more comforting to lose both of them, rather than just one. Cameron, Chase, and Foreman will get that text, and they'll tell the others, and everyone will just think that it makes sense. That the moment House was gone from their lives, of course Wilson would have to leave too. Even the five months he actually had left would be too long to stick around.

His old friends will check his apartment, just to see. They'll find a suitcase missing and they'll find out somehow that he took all of his money out of savings. And they'll wonder what he's doing without House, if he's living out his last days as an entirely different person to cope.

And maybe he has become more like Kyle Carraway, just a little bit. Because he doesn't care how he leaves the world, now. He doesn't care about "setting affairs in order" or making sure that nothing bad happens due to his death.

Because everything he cares about is right next to him.

"Do you think any of them will try to look for me anyway?" Wilson wonders aloud. He glances at the sunset, noting the cinematic symbolism, but carries on just looking at House.

"Nah," he dismisses. "They respect you too much."

"Even more so now that they think you're dead, probably. Except you are. I mean. We're both basically dead."

We're both _dying,_  House wants to correct him, but it occurs to him that Wilson may not know. His best friend may be the one person who understands him the most, but he's never known how to pinpoint House's moments of emotional depth. And he doesn't want to acknowledge it.

He promptly gets back onto his motorcycle, motioning for Wilson to hop on behind him. They're done here.

"Where to?"

"Well, as much as I enjoy holding onto your waist for dear life, I think I ought to get my own motorcycle. So let's do that first."

Wilson rests his head on House's shoulder almost too comfortably, and House smiles.

"I bet Kyle never had a motorcycle." And he takes off without much warning, just to note how Wilson clings to him with far less urgency than he would had he not only five months left to live.

* * *

 

What House doesn't acknowledge is that he only has five months left as well. As his best friend dies, he might as well be doing the same. He's dead to the world, anyway—shouldn't it be obvious? He shouldn't have to make it clear that he has no intention to live on his own after these months are over.

Wilson seems to try to acknowledge it, though. The only reason he ever brings up his inevitable death is to see if he can get House to say something.

"If the cancer gets too bad..."

"Cancer is boring."

He always gets cut off. After a couple times, he doesn't start with that anymore. House wants to talk about the ticking time bomb inside him even less than he does. He doesn't even try to say "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it"—but Wilson knows that's what his silence means.

 _"What will you do?"_  he wants to ask. But he can't. He thinks about it whenever they stop for meals—he wonders if he could catch him off guard. Just put down his burger and say it when there's no prior emotional charge. It seems so easy, and he wants an answer—

Except, he realizes, he doesn't. Because he knows House and he knows that while he's the biggest ass he's ever met, he's also capable of great love. But even when you look past the asshole, he's  _still_  an asshole.

This is a man who refused to comfort him unless he fought for his life. This is a man who has been to a psychiatric hospital, to rehab, to prison. House has hurt him possibly more than he's hurt any other person simply because he's actually stuck around. He's never admitted to needing him until it's almost been too late. So how can Wilson know whether he'll want to keep living after his death? How can he know anything about what goes on in that lunatic's head, really.

Self-admittedly, he's afraid of the answer. A little more than a week into the road trip, he realizes that. Especially this early on—if he spends the next few months knowing that House will keep on living after him, it would break his heart.

So he resigns to not knowing, just hoping.

House can tell, too, because Wilson has stopped trying to ask. It isn't a stretch for him to guess the reason, either. He's disappointed that Wilson doesn't have complete faith in him, though at the same time he's proud of him for not losing his ability to doubt.

Around the time that he stops, House insists that they go to Dallas. The trip takes a few days, and he won't tell Wilson exactly why they're going there until it's literally staring him in the face.

"Isn't it amazing?"

"It's pretty huge, but—"

"We got here right on time, I'm impressed with myself."

Wilson is stuck in place as House limps away into the sea of hicks. After a few moments he chases after him, slightly red in the face.

"You took us all the way here for Monster Jam." In that moment, he completely forgets that he's dying. He's taken back to years ago, when they still did this. When House's average degree of assholery was simply wasting his time and being mildly selfish. If he wasn't so frustrated, he would be recognizing how nice this actually is.

"I've always heard everything is bigger in Texas," he says, smirking ahead and finding a place in line for tickets. "I thought we could just see one last show together."

"...You know I hate monster truck rallies."

"Wow," he scoffs, "I didn't know everything was about you."

He's not mad. He never expected House to tone down his selfish behavior that much, even in his dying months. It's just... nothing, actually. Now that he thinks about it, it's not quite that much time wasted. Monster trucks may be utterly unentertaining to him, but he can sit through just one more without actually wasting his time being angry. So he sighs indignantly but otherwise doesn't complain after they've gotten tickets and found seats.

There's the food, at least. And there's bonding over how barbaric southerners are. And there's the excitement that Wilson can't help but get wrapped up in—mob mentality—and... and. And  _House isn't being selfish,_  he realizes.

The Batman-themed truck just did something cool that Wilson wasn't paying attention to and House is cheering with everyone else, and Wilson can't even be bothered by the noise because he's looking at House's face and realizing that his friend isn't trying to take time away from him. He's not being his usual unreasonably selfish self. He's doing this because he feels that he  _deserves_  it—that this is his last chance.

This is his way of telling him that these five months aren't just for him.

He should have known already. Jesus. But he's finding out through a damn monster truck rally.

House then notices him frowning at him, and it's too late to play it off.

"What?" he shouts above the crowd.

He half-considers acknowledging it. But what use would that have? "Nothing. Just bored."

House shrugs and goes back to watching the trucks hit each other. "Sounds like a personal problem."

* * *

 

They alternate between doing what either of them want. Really, they drift. They go "wherever the wind takes them," as Wilson suggests before House tells him that they're not hippies. The majority of their decisions are what direction to go next, but they still alternate between who makes them. And when there's something that one of them suddenly decides they want to do before they die, they do it without hesitation.

House keeps cash in various different places just to make sure that if they get mugged or pick-pocketed, they'll have backups. Including a money clip strapped to his good thigh. He also jokes about having some in a tube shoved up his ass, and refuses to divulge to Wilson whether or not it's actually true.

It all amounts to about ten thousand, which is far more than enough for them to get on for the next few months—food, motels, gas money, and actually  _not_  hookers.

Neither of them ever feel up to it anymore. Any time spent with some prostitute instead of each other feels like time wasted, and... honestly? The desire's just not there. They don't exactly talk about it, but Wilson doesn't crave the touch of a woman whatsoever and he can only assume it's the same for House.

House just feels like he's past the point where he needs meaningless sex. There's no longer any void to fill.

The rest of his behavior actually does change. Not drastically, but any time he is a rude ass seems more like an attempt to keep up a facade than anything—or because he simply doesn't realize that what he's doing is socially unacceptable. Some things never change, of course. But other things were always there for a reason that doesn't exist anymore: House isn't in pain. He doesn't feel the need to be a jerk. This is the final version of him—Dying House. Five Months to Live House. Wants His Friend's Last Days to be Happy House.

Wilson likes this House the best and he almost feels bad about that, until he remembers. House isn't sacrificing anything by being this way. He's happy with this and Wilson doesn't need to feel guilty for anything.

How ironic, though, that they should both be happiest in their final days.

Sometimes he remembers the man who wanted to sue him for retracting his cancer diagnosis. The man who said that by telling him he had a short time to live, Wilson had given him happiness. At the time he didn't understand. Well, he objectively realized the relief that would come with losing all responsibility, but he didn't  _emotionally_  get it. He does now.

Around three weeks in, he and House are sitting on some mountain ledge in Nevada and smoking cigars, and Wilson brings it up.

"If there were a medicine that could cure me completely, and it were quick and painless, would you give it to me?"

He doesn't know why he thought it was a good idea. But it fit with his thought process and the time and the air feels right somehow, and all of a sudden he doesn't feel awkward thinking about his own mortality.

House stiffens despite the de-stressing chemicals running through his system, though, and just looks at him in silence. Wilson stares back and simply waits, making no move to prompt him to speak.

Finally, House exhales the smoke he's been keeping in. "Do you want me to say that I'd be selfless and let you go back to a life that can't include me?"

"I just want you to be honest—"

"Because I'm  _dead_." The pause is sharp, and to relieve the sudden stress he puffs his cigar. "You already agreed to be dead with me."

He doesn't seem to want to respond more than that. But Wilson wants more—he needs more, he needs to hear him say all the selfish, angry things he's feeling and he needs to know exactly how House has rationalized his cancer into something good.

"Obviously it's not going to happen," he half-sighs, putting out his cigar for now to make it clear that he wants to talk whether House likes it or not. "It's impossible. Just humor me and this hypothetical situation, please."

"Are you saying I owe you this?" he frowns, not quite looking at him yet.

"You owe me everything."

House doesn't want to. Because as little empathy as he has, as lacking in regard for the emotions of others he has trained himself to be... he knows it's bad to feel this way. He knows exactly how fucked up it is to be this selfish and he actually feels  _guilt_  in just being himself, let alone admitting it.

But Wilson already knows exactly how fucked up he is. House doesn't understand how hearing it will help, but hey, he asked for it.

"I wouldn't." He wishes he had something to drink, but the nearest bar is miles away. "I would make sure you didn't even know it existed, if I could. Five months is five months. I'm done playing God."

"You would rather me go through pain than save me, for the sake of not messing with fate?"

"If you're going to judge me—"

"I'm not judging," Wilson assures him, truthfully. The only emotion he's currently feeling is curiosity. "I just want to know."

 _You want to know the extent of how obsessive and entitled I am?_  is what his eyebrows seem to say. And then his mouth follows with "I don't like change. And there's nothing to save you from in the first place."

"Well, death is pretty bad."

"Only if you're going in alone."

Now House feels like he's said too much, made himself too emotionally vulnerable. And that makes him angry, it makes him want to blame Wilson for turning him into this, and even worse, for not realizing it.

Feeling a strong need to distance himself from this conversation, or to just establish that it's over, he avoids looking at Wilson's face and pushes himself up to stand. "I need to pee."

Before he can take more than two steps toward one of the bushes near them, though, Wilson twists around and says, "You're not going to ask me whether or not I would  _take_  the hypothetical medicine?"

Then he stops. And waits a second or so. And House jabs his cane into the ground once to turn around, frowning because he didn't expect this at all. Part of him is impressed with his friend for actually throwing him off like this—he actually doesn't know what to say for a moment.

"Well, now I can extrapolate that you wouldn't. Why not?"

"Living on the road would get too hard. Eventually we'd run out of money."

It only takes a second for House to understand exactly what he means, and he can't even bring himself to be annoyed that Wilson put him through brief emotional hell just out of curiosity and to make a point.

House is proud of how much he's rubbed off him, but he refrains from smiling and instead reverts his mannerisms into the "nothing interesting just happened" facade.

"Mm. I still have to pee, though."

As he walks toward the bush again, Wilson holds back a laugh and turns to light his cigar back up.

* * *

 

The day that Wilson starts taking pain medication every day and the day that he stops booking double rooms are very much correlated.

It starts out with discomfort. And then almost a complete inability to sleep. His anxiety is making him sweat and the bed feels like rocks and he doesn't even need to say anything on his own, just his breathing is loud enough to wake House. He sits up looking tired, but not annoyed.

Rather than telling him to take more meds, or asking him if he's okay, House just leans back on his arms, blinks, and says, "You can sleep in my bed."

It helps, having a presence next to yours while you sleep. Wilson feels stupid, though. He feels like a child who's woken up from a nightmare, or who thinks there's something in his closet, and asked to sleep in his parents' bed. The last time he did that, he was six. House would probably laugh at him if he told him.

Though he's not laughing now. He's right back to sleep after a muttered "goodnight" when he feels the dip in the bed, lying on his back with half a foot of space in between himself and Wilson.

"Night, House," he mutters back.

Both of them initially assume it was a one-time thing, but the very next night Wilson is finding himself moving to his friend's bed yet again. It happens for the whole rest of the week until finally, he decides that they've both accepted this reality and there's no need for a room with two beds.

It's not something they talk about or even mention—it doesn't feel weird. It honestly feels natural. And it continues to feel natural as time passes and, in spite of whatever happens during the day, Wilson's worsening discomfort at night causes them to gradually move closer.

House forgets exactly when it happens, but one of those nights, he's woken up by Wilson crying in his sleep. Not too loudly, he's just sniffling with the occasional break in his voice, but it pains him to hear it. And without thinking, he shifts closer and turns onto his side so he can wrap an arm around his friend's chest, press his own chest against his back.

For a moment Wilson freezes and ceases crying, and then he lets out a shuddering breath and covers House's hand and forearm with his own.

Unlike the bed situation, this one isn't gradual. It's a sudden shift and it feels like they both just jumped a gap. In a good, relieving way. Like spooning every night was something they couldn't fucking wait for.

Wilson is always out of his arms and in the shower by the time House wakes up, though. He supposes it's for the best, aside from the fact that they recently hit the three-month mark and yet they're  _still_  trying so hard to avoid acknowledging anything.

It's childish. And stupid. Years ago House might have imagined being a rude, constantly deflecting, emotionless asshole even in his final days, but he'd never imagined his final days like this. And he doesn't think about it consciously or longer than a few seconds at a time, but it'll be too late too soon. They're running out of time and neither of them want to go forever just judging on actions and never making anything  _clear_.

The vague unspokenness of it all is admittedly nice, however. They go to beaches and national parks and boxing matches and wherever they feel like going, and House will make a comment about how his hair is getting too long while they're eating and Wilson will tell him to fuck off, and at the end of the day they just ride their motorcycles into the next city together, leaving the last one in the dust behind them. It's essentially their version of walking off into the sunset, except  _much_  cooler.

They do talk about things that aren't shallow, of course. Just. Usually over cigars or drinks or burgers because they feel too vulnerable just sitting and staring into the distance with emotions and whatnot out in the open, even if it's just fun conversation. It feels too much like a dumb movie.

(House is consciously saving the real talks for when Wilson's cancer actually does get really bad. The prospect doesn't seem too bad, having their emotions everywhere in a situation that's already painful enough to mask it.)

It also seems like they're spending the night in bars more and more often, and with good reason. Neither of them have the energy to do the math, but it's beginning to get difficult to remember nights that they aren't at least mildly drunk. Often enough, it ends with only one of them significantly inebriated, thus forcing the other to drive them both back on one motorcycle and leaving one to go get in the morning.

More than half of those times, it's Wilson who's drunker, and who needs to be helped onto the motorcycle and who spends the ride needily clinging and pressing his nose into the back of House's neck, either unaware or uncaring how sexual it seems.

But those times it's also House who grins through it, who welcomes it and who immediately drops Wilson and himself into bed when they get back to the motel. After a glass of water to sober him up slightly, of course.

And it very well might not be the first time when, on one of those nights, House curls deeper into Wilson right on the verge of sleep and mutters, "I love you."

It's at least the first time he hears it, though. Because after a few moments of House believing he's safe while nearly unconscious, Wilson mutters back.

"You said you weren't going to say that."

And House's eyelids shoot open.  _Now_  he remembers exactly why acknowledging things is so painful—except that doesn't make the pain any less stupid.

"Wilson, don't," is all he can think to say. He doesn't have the energy for this. It's too late and he's a little drunk and Wilson is drunker... and this just isn't the right time. He can't help but think that maybe it'll never be the right time.

And then Wilson does the worst possible thing and turns around to face him. It takes a moment for their eyes to focus on each other in the dark, and when they do, House swallows.

"You're drunk."

"I sobered up a lot in the past few seconds," he insists. It's not a lie, but the sheer amount of alcohol in his system is definitely the cause of his bravery. "And you said it, I know you mean it."

But he's still afraid. House is a middle-aged man who has faced more than most people and yet he feels  _helpless_ , he's a child again because of something so stupid—

"House. What is there to lose?"

It's still so dark but Wilson's hopeful smile is clear to him, he doesn't look afraid at all... and there's a hand resting gently on his face, thumb ghosting over his stubble and calming him down. Wilson must see the restrained self-hatred in his face because his expression softens, as well as his breathing.

And it's that which relieves House of fear enough for him to move closer, close enough to feel his breath and then enough that he can no longer hear either of them breathing.

Neither of them can remember in this moment, but it isn't the first time they've kissed. There have been other drunk incidents, jokes, dares... but those don't count. This is  _real_ _—_ realer than anything they've ever said or done, in fact. Probably— _definitely_ _—_ the most intimate kiss either of them have shared with anyone.

Once the initial fear wears off, House cups Wilson's face, pulls him even closer, and slides his hand up to grip his hair tight. It doesn't bother him anymore that Wilson isn't a woman, and he can't find it in himself to believe that it ever did really bother him. It's a fucking shame that they never did anything about this before... God, he wants to cry. And now he wants to punish himself for being so damn sad at a time like this, what the fuck is wrong with him?

"We've been so fucking stupid," Wilson mumbles into his lips just then, as though he can hear House's thoughts. He sounds like he might be about to cry. It reassures him to know that he's not alone in that respect.

"I know," is all he can say in response, teeth catching on Wilson's bottom lip. His voice is hoarser than he expected.

Then House pulls pack an inch with a sudden burst of courage to face him again. Wilson looks startled.

"You didn't say it back."

"What?" He's confused for a moment, but then—

"You—"

"I love you too."

There's eye contact when he says it. Everything is out in the open without physical distractions to make it less awkward, and for the first time House doesn't mind at all.

It's surprisingly Wilson who ends up saying, "Are you gonna kiss me again, or are we done for the night?"

At which point House does as he asks and silently promises that they will do more than kissing.

* * *

 

"The woman at the front referred to you as my husband."

"Well, we were holding hands when we walked in."

Wilson can't stop grinning to himself regardless. It's been over two weeks since they established exactly what this thing between them is and he couldn't be happier that other people are seeing it. Of course House can only see the logic in it and he doesn't care, but you know. He's House.

It's so relieving, knowing that they can spend their remaining time actually acting like boyfriends. Well—they've always been a couple. And people have been making assumptions about their relationship for years. They're not exactly behaving differently with each other, either, or using pet names unironically or any of that... damn. The only difference is physical affection. But at least House isn't insisting on keeping it private.

Actually, Wilson is surprised that he isn't. House has always been shameless about the women that he's been with, but Wilson is different. He's a man, first of all. And then there's more emotional connection, as in, he actually cares. House had been  _afraid_  to make a move and now look at him, holding hands and kissing him on the cheek in public...

He's still holding his hand once they've sat down in the restaurant, fingers lazily interlocked in the middle of the table. It's like he just doesn't want to let go.

Wilson asks about it just as a waiter drops off their drinks and a bowl full of bread rolls, giving House the perfect timing to stuff one in his mouth instead of answering.

"Sahh, cah ahnhaa," he says, muffled with a mouthful of bread and gesturing to said mouthful.

Rather than humoring him, Wilson glares until House has successfully chewed and swallowed the entire roll. And then he asks again.

House promptly waves over a waiter and proceeds to order for both of them in fluent Spanish—he often likes to show off like that when they're at foreign places. Of course he doesn't give Wilson a chance to order for himself and presumably just orders what he usually gets at Mexican restaurants, but then again, it saves him the embarrassment of ordering in English and also the fact that he  _hadn't even opened his menu yet_.

When the waiter nods and leaves with their menus, Wilson glares again. But only for a moment before shrugging. "You don't want to answer, fine. I'll just sit here and assume you've secretly been a huge softie this whole time."

"Well, you know what people say about assuming."

Wilson purposely screws his face up to pretend to be confused and thinking hard for a few good seconds, and then, "Something about asses, isn't it?"

"No, you're just thinking of what we're gonna do tonight."

For all the years he has learned to expect the worst kind of innuendos to come out of House's mouth and to not find anything surprising, nothing prepared him quite enough for that. And House immediately smirks, clearly proud of how red he's managed to make Wilson's face go.

He doesn't even allow the poor man to emotionally recover before leaning forward and opening his mouth again.

"Do you want to get married?"

It's far too casual to be serious. He's frowning and asking the same way he'd ask for his opinion on a political figure—but you can never know with House.

Wilson blinks and tries not to gawp. "Are you trying to kill me faster?"

"I'm not proposing, if that's the question you're implying. Just asking."

Somehow, it makes sense. In House's world, even judging by how he behaved long before the cancer, this is a logically progressing situation. So Wilson is immediately calmed by the reassurance and able to force a deeper breath down.

"I... haven't thought about it, I guess," he says slowly, nervously shifting in his seat. "I don't see any point in it now, but then I suppose that's only because you've worn off on me. Do you?"

"I don't know," House says immediately, briefly averting his gaze. "I don't see why not. It's something to do. And we'd be part of the small percentage of people who actually do have a pure, sacred marriage—by its own definition."

"...So you're saying that you want to get married because you're bored, or because you want to be a statistical anomaly?"

"I'm already a statistical anomaly," he counters. "And I'm not bored. I just don't want to regret anything, and neither do you."

It's certainly something to think about, now, but Wilson doesn't want to decide right away. So he tells House and they agree that it's ultimately a decision for another day. It'll be soon, but at least  _another_  day.

By the time their food comes they've moved onto a new topic, but Wilson almost forgets that House has even been holding his hand until he lets go to eat. And then it occurs to him—the reason for his unabashed public affection is so simple and House literally fucking  _gave_  it to him: He doesn't want to regret anything.

"Jesus, you  _asshole_ ," he says aloud—and a little too loud, as some of the neighboring tables turn to look at him. House looks up as well, though ironically slower than the rest.

"What did Jesus ever do to you, Wilson?"

"Can't you ever just give me a clear answer on anything emotion-based instead of trying to make it the part of some bigger picture, you  _drama queen_."

Judging by the look of it, House knows exactly what Wilson is talking about. And if he looked different, Wilson would just assume that he was playing coy, that  _fucker_.

"What would be the fun in that?"

He grimaces like he half-expects to be punched in the face and then smiles like he honestly wants it. Wilson narrowly avoids a brief fantasy with those elements.

And then Wilson genuinely laughs and unconsciously reaches out for a second, just to brush his fingers across the back of House's hand.

"You're right, you'd be boring."

Being kept on his toes has always been the most thoroughly entertaining part of this relationship. It's occasionally been what pushes him away, but his attraction to it has always drawn him back.

For a moment, though, House is surprised by his lack of resistance. If it's a part of the cancer, then that can't be helped. Cancer's boring, anyway. And if it's just part of dying, well. Dying is boring too.

He remains unconcerned for the rest of the meal—and for only that time. Because as soon as Wilson stands up his hand flies to his chest, which he doesn't even have a chance to clutch before his knees buckle and his shoulder collides loudly with the floor.

" _Wilson_ _—_ _!_ " House unhesitatingly falls with him in his panic, even though logically he can see that what's happening isn't life threatening, it's just pain—he worries anyway. He worries irrationally. That's how he knows for sure that he  _really_  cares.

It lasts two seconds. House knows that, and the bystanders who rush to help should also know that, but to Wilson it feels longer. Like at least ten seconds.

He's been having bad chronic chest pain because of the tumor for weeks, but it's been manageable. It's what he's been taking daily pain meds for. But that was sharp and sudden and intense and absolutely debilitating, and he's known this was going to start happening sooner or later. And now he feels humiliated for having it happen in public.

For a moment he hates everything and desperately wants to give up.

He also may have just muttered " _I want to give up_ " out loud without noticing it, as House subsequently says "Not today, you won't," and starts to haul him back up.

"I can get myself up," he mutters. On purpose, this time. And House respects his pride enough to step back.

"He's fine, everyone," House announces to the worried onlookers, waving them back to their tables with his cane. "I mean, he has terminal cancer, but he's fine."

Wilson frowns. Apparently he doesn't respect his pride  _that_  much.

"Let's go."

As they walk out of the restaurant, two things of consequence happen. The first is House taking a moment to fix Wilson's hair and shirt which were screwed up when he fell, which is honestly endearing. The second is a sudden hyper-awareness of Wilson's mortality, followed by a decision.

He stops aside his motorcycle, facing House on the other side of his own.

"Let's go elope in Vegas. Right now."

Oh. A quick raise of House's eyebrows are enough of a request for an explanation.

"It might not be long before I'm getting that pain too often... I don't want to regret anything."

* * *

 

The timing of their short trip to Las Vegas is awfully reminiscent of that road trip that Wilson planned months ago, before he even knew that he was dying. The impulsivity is the immediate similarity that comes to mind, but. It's much more than that.

At their cores, they're the exact same trip. Just a forced calm before the storm. A break to forget entirely about everything, just a last bit of intense fun before all hell breaks loose.

They're getting married. And there's a couple days in between Kansas City and Vegas, which means a couple days full of just looking forward to it. And then the consummation, and almost positively somewhat of a honeymoon phase. They have time.

But  _holy shit, I'm getting fucking married._

This will be Wilson's fourth and (ironically) shortest-lasting marriage, as House points out along the way. So he shouldn't be terribly excited.

He almost tries to tell House that technically they'll be married for all eternity—but House doesn't believe in an afterlife, let alone eternity. No use in trying to convince him.

"You know our marriage can't even be recognized in most states," he adds.

"Are you trying to talk me out of it?" he responds lazily, already sure of the answer. He knows House is just being an ass for the sake of it.

"Nah. Just giving you your daily reminder that you're an idiot."

Wilson compulsively smiles. "There's more to marriage than tax benefits."

House nods in mock-agreement. "Ah, you're right, I forgot. There's rings with pretty stones on them, too."

Soon after they reach Vegas, Wilson suffers another intense stabbing pain in the chest. It's shortly after he parks his motorcycle at a rest stop. Wilson thanks God out loud that it wasn't while he was riding, and House finds himself briefly agreeing with him.

"That's a two-day gap in between the attacks," he tells House. Monotone, like he's listing off the symptoms of a patient. "We can expect it'll remain in that pattern for some time, and then get gradually worse."

Neither of them have any desire to talk about it further. They're about to get married, for God's sake.

There's a pawn shop downtown where they pick out rings. Quality and substance are irrelevant—all that matters is that they're matching. A simple set of gold bands that add up to about $120 is good enough.

House jokes about picking out a doctor theme for their Vegas wedding, and Wilson briefly considers it. But they stick with traditional because it feels more real this way, even with rented suits and a partially stoned minister and cheap rings, and fucking 99-cent party streamers stuck to the back of their motorcycles as they drive to a motel. There are rings and vows and "I do"s... so it's as real as they need it to be.

And more importantly there's the sex—more intimate and more intense than they've dared to have until now. Consummating a marriage is a strong motivator for Wilson telling House outright that he wants to ride him, that he's been thinking about it for over a week.

The only concern that either of them let slip out is House, right then, ghosting his hand over Wilson's chest and asking him if he's sure he'll be fine. It'll inevitably be strenuous and that could damage his chest somehow, and he sure as hell doesn't want to risk escalating the tumor just for the sake of getting off.

"Of course I will," he breathes, shrugging off his shirt and straddling House harder than before. He's not going to acknowledge the cancer. Not even vaguely. Not tonight.

* * *

 

The notable things that Wilson does on their honeymoon night include flushing red all over, screaming loud enough to wake up the entire motel, and going into a coughing fit in the shower afterward.

That doesn't mean it's too bad, yet, they both tell themselves. It's just one fit. He's fine.

House silently resolves to have no more intense sex from now on, though. If there's a possibility that they've just sped up the process, he doesn't want to risk it again.

In just a few days, they hit the two month mark. Wilson's symptoms are fairly close to schedule, as House notices—but he tries not to. He wishes he could be ignorant. He wants to be able to see a cough as  _just a cough_  instead of the result of a bomb in Wilson's chest. It's like there's a calculator in his head that does the work for him, and without even trying to, he's noticing patterns and setting an exact date for them to die.

He doesn't fucking  _want_  this, and it doesn't even matter to him that Wilson knows exactly what's happening to him as well. It doesn't matter that there's no need to hide it. He wants to rip out the part of his brain that makes him such a fucking machine and he wants to kill it, he hates it for making him be the way he is. For making him hurt everyone.

A week later, House decides that they've been too lucky too many times, and that they're bound to run out of luck soon. The longer Wilson continues to ride a motorcycle, the more he's risking premature death, and he may insist that he's more in control during the pain attacks now, but that makes no difference to House. He refuses to risk it.

"You're safer just holding onto me while I drive. That way if there's an accident, both of us die. Either that, or we can just stay here for the next two months. Win-win."

As long as they're still on the road, Wilson decides, it isn't too bad. At least he gets to continue to live out yet another cliche from his bucket list.

It's getting harder by the day, but he's still managing. His pain med dosage is excessive, but not dangerous. He drinks water after every bite of food so he can swallow easier. He consciously takes in more air with every breath.

House lets Wilson take care of himself and remains as subtle as possible with his attempts to get him to take it easy. Wilson doesn't exactly seem to mind them, anyway, since so much of their time is spent simply lying together and talking. Much of it isn't sexual whatsoever. They just... hold hands and talk. Anywhere, and about anything.

"This feels like a movie," House points out in one of their talks.

Wilson lets his head loll over. "You've said that a lot."

"Yeah, but not here. This is a different movie. We're lying on a rock outside an old village. At night. I'm feeling... Dead Poets Society. I'm Neil. You're Robin Williams."

"I'm feeling Holmesian." Wilson looks back to the sky and lets go of a breath with an odd sort of purpose.

"That's not a movie," House retorts. "You're playing this game wrong."

"First of all, it  _has_  been adapted into several movies, and second of all... I don't understand why you don't like being compared to Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't like being compared to anyone. It makes it harder for me to be special."

"I'm sure you could handle a single other man like yourself in existence, especially considering he's fictional."

House drops it, and Wilson is silent for a while. Until he remembers something worth saying.

"You know, it's funny. Us. Holmes and Watson. At the end of the books—"

"God dammit, spoilers!"

"They both retire from crimesolving and go off to keep bees," Wilson finishes. Now House is the one who turns his head.

"Are you saying you want to spend the rest of our time keeping bees?"

Wilson sighs. "No. I wasn't making a completely literal parallel, I just—it works, in a metaphorical sense. We're retired and doing inane things just because we can. It's funny."

"If I tell you that I'm actually Arthur Conan Doyle and in the future I go back in time to write the Sherlock Holmes novels based specifically on our lives, will you stop obsessing over a few coincidences?"

"According to you, there are no coincidences. Sherlock says the same thing."

There's nothing House can reasonably say against that one, but he refuses to see it as a valid perspective regardless.

Wilson grins at his telltale silence and mentally marks himself a point in this game.

* * *

 

Wilson has made the official switch from vicodin to morphine, and at this point in time he needs to take it with increasing frequency in order to keep moving. House doesn't even bother suggesting that they simply resign to staying in one place—he'll be damned if he lets either of them waste their last six weeks.

The pain attacks come harder, last longer, and now happen at intervals of once every few hours. But the base level of pain has also increased, so it's proportionally not much different than before. Luckily the swelling of his throat is much more easily manageable, so neither of them have to worry about him simply suffocating.

"I want to hike up a mountain," Wilson tells him a few days before the one-month mark. He's sitting at the edge of the bed, staring out the window of their lodge in northern California. He's clearly been thinking about this for some time.

"...You want to push yourself," House guesses. It makes sense. It's stupid and dangerous and practically suicidal, but... it's part of his pride. He's not going to take that away from Wilson.

"What's the point of being in pain if I'm not actually  _doing_  anything?"

House holds onto the morphine. Realistically it's enough to make the hike not much more difficult than it would have been before the cancer, but Wilson refuses that strong of a dosage. He takes just enough to manage.

"It's beautiful up here," House comments on one of their short breaks. He actually sounds serious.

Wilson exhales a short laugh. "I wouldn't have expected you to care."

"Well, I thought you might."

In the next minute of silence, Wilson silently prays for relief. He's in a lot of pain and it's almost to the point where he can't pretend that he's fine anymore. Finally, he caves and asks for more morphine.

"I haven't noticed you take anything," he adds as he downs the pill, eyeing House's leg. He's been rubbing it an awful lot, but Wilson hasn't even heard the sound of a vicodin bottle opening throughout the whole hike.

"I didn't think it would be fair," House says after a moment, promptly standing up as though to prove that he's fine. "With you taking morphine and me not taking more than the recommended dose of vicodin, we're in a relatively equal amount of pain."

 _Wow._  Wilson reaches out for House to pull him up and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. "You're an idiot."

The hike gets exponentially more painful from there. They both insist that they make it to the top anyway, but by the time they're halfway up, it's already getting dark. So with an extreme blow to their mutual pride, they relent and begin the trek back down. This time with far more meds in their system.

At least they don't resort to calling for help.

Wilson cries through the pain, though, and he makes a point of passing out as soon as they return to the lodge.

* * *

 

Water isn't helping the swallowing process anymore. There's special medication to help with peristalsis, but it's hell.

Wilson often wakes up to House sitting up and stroking his hair, face red and blotchy like he was crying a while ago and tried to wipe away the evidence.

"You look—"  _cough_  "—like shit." He smiles at his joke, knowing how much worse he must look. And then he can't help but dissolve into a coughing fit, which House ignores so Wilson won't mistake concern for pity.

"What do you want to do today?" he asks. House has made it a routine to ask every morning since the hike.

Wilson's eyes look dead as he thinks. His voice is casual, though, when he sits up and says he'll decide in the shower.

House watches him walk to the motel bathroom and accidentally holds his breath until the door shuts behind him. Something about the situation is worrying, but every day seems to feel like this now.

He doesn't let it get to him until he realizes that it's been ten minutes and he hasn't heard the shower turn on. Fear grabs him and put his heart in temporary arrhythmia as he rushes to the bathroom without even the thought to grab his cane, then slams the door open—

Wilson is sitting in the bathtub, his shirt and boxers still on, and luckily still alive. House eyes the lethal pile of morphine pills sitting on the edge of the tub and the man inside looks vaguely heartbroken.

"You still have three weeks left."

"I'm sorry." He sounds out of breath. It's gotten so much worse in just the past day. "I can't do it."

House leans against the doorframe for a moment, needing the extra support without his cane. And then he resigns himself—he's not angry that Wilson is giving up. He's been prepared for this for the past month, actually.

"You're still here, though."

"I—"

"You were scared." House limps toward the bathtub, closes the door, and, without warning, crawls in with him. "You don't have to go through this alone."

House situates himself so that he's taking up the bathtub and Wilson is lying halfway on top of him. He briefly thinks back to the leg surgery he tried to perform on himself a couple years ago, and all the panic and pain he felt and how the first person he called was Wilson. He imagines a universe where Wilson did pick up the phone and came to help him then. Like how he's always done. It's always been him.

"And you can forget those," he says, swiping the morphine off the tub's edge and sending them clattering to the floor. House promptly shifts and digs a hand into his right pocket, pulling out two identical pills. "These are more efficient. One for each of us."

Wilson looks at him like he's some sort of God. And then his gaze of awe switches to the pills. Slowly, he reaches out and takes one, turning it around in his hand as though to examine it, see if it's real.

"You've planned this all along, haven't you?"

House doesn't say anything. That's enough of an answer.

"...How much time after we take them?"

"About ten minutes. Then we'll drift to sleep."

Wilson continues to stare at the pill in silence for about half a minute. Then he tells House, "On three."

They get ready, and they count. Then they swallow and it's too late to turn back.

Neither of them ever imagined dying like this. Middle aged, medication, in a motel bathtub... lovers. The owner will come banging at their door tomorrow and eventually just unlock it. They'll find two men dead in the bathtub and call the police, and the police will identify their bodies and call the next of kin. Maybe it'll even be on the news—everyone loves a tragic love story. And everyone will know that House didn't die in the fire, but rather that he faked his death... that he and Wilson were the love of each other's lives. Everyone will know the truth.

"I just realized that I never really wrote a suicide note," Wilson says, relaxing into House. He's not distraught about missing the chance, it's just something he noticed.

"No one deserves a note," House mutters. "You already said your goodbyes."

"I take it you never had any intention to write a note all those times you nearly killed yourself."

House laughs as a response, getting a chuckle in return. Unconsciously, he takes the hand that's wrapped around Wilson's shoulder and laces their fingers together.

"You spent your life looking for the truth," Wilson says eventually. It's slow and punctuated with coughs, and he turns his head to press his nose into House's neck. "Do you think you found it?"

He thinks back to the day he faked his death, and what happened before the patient died. Back to the hospital, and how angry he'd been at Wilson, and his close call with murder. And what Park said to him.

"I think... that I wasted a lot of time. I think that I was fundamentally wrong no matter how hard I tried. The truth... Sometimes, the truth just sucks."

They both wasted a lot of time, Wilson can't help but think. House's failure is sad as it is, but... he's suddenly hyper-aware of the cold metal of his own wedding band. And he thinks about how they may have had these months, but there's still so much for him to regret.

"I wish we had had more time," is all he says for a moment. And House is silent, about to agree, but then—"I wish we hadn't wasted twenty goddamn years. I wish... I wish that I'd never made the mistake of leaving you those times, or having  _three_  fucking wives, or just—I wish one of us had  _said something_..."

House feels his neck getting damp and reflexively squeezes Wilson's hand.

"Please don't cry, I don't want the last thing I see to be you crying."

Funnily enough, it works. And Wilson grins. "Even in your last moments, you're a selfish asshole."

"People don't change."

Somehow, neither of them are in a hurry to think of more things to say. It should feel like they're wasting their very last minutes if they're not filling it with deep conversation and declarations of love, but it doesn't. They suppose it's because they've said all they absolutely needed to say to each other.

A minute of silence later, though, "The pain is starting to fade."

"That's why I chose those pills," House tells him. "You'll get a few minutes of painlessness before everything else fades, instead of just a few seconds."

"My cancer has made you truly kind," Wilson says, vaguely trying to sound poetic.

It's really quite nice, the whole situation. House obviously hasn't been less of an ass, but he hasn't been emotionally difficult to deal with. And now... his physical pain is gone. And he's in a bathtub. It almost feels like he's in a boat, sailing off to die a proper death at sea.

"I'm glad I got sick," he decides out loud, moments later. "It took a tumor to bring us together like this, so be it. I can't think of a better way to die."

House shifts downward in the tub, just enough that his and Wilson's faces are level. He feels a very intense need to face him in their last minutes—he needs to see his eyes, and his smile, and the greying spots in his hair. His previously free hand is on Wilson's face, thumb swiping over his stubble and his last two fingers splayed over his jaw.

He opens his mouth to say " _Me neither_ ," but it comes out as "Kiss me."

Wilson's leaning forward before he's even done saying it. And he's kissing him like he never intends to let go—it's not passionate, though. Nor is it sad. It just feels like one last act to make sure they don't regret anything.

Kissing slows down their time, and that makes them want to never stop. But Wilson realizes that time is still affecting them when he no longer feels House's stubble scratching against his cheek.

"My face is going numb," he whispers. House stops kissing him and opens his eyes.

"Everything is going blurry. And my heart is slowing down... Just a normal sunday for me."

Wilson wants to laugh, but he's losing energy. Most of his remaining strength is put toward grinning and clutching hard at House's shirt. And then despite his efforts to keep it up, his smile falters.

"Don't try to hold on," House slurs. His hand is still on Wilson's face, and he wants to inch as close as possible, he wants to kiss him again, but his body is weighing him down now.

They're shutting down, but there's still some consciousness left, Wilson can feel it. Still room for one more direct thought. A million things could potentially come to the front of his mind in this moment, and the one he forces out is one word, softly exhaled.

" _Greg_..."

House's eyes are already closing for good when he hears him. Immediately, though weakly, he smiles.

He's the first to fade by a second, but he still manages to form his mouth around a last word as well.

" _James_."

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple reference notes:
> 
> For anyone who doesn't know, House mentioning Dead Poets Society is a joke to subvert the fact that Neil's character is actually played by Wilson's actor. Funnily enough, House mentions that movie in the last episode. Meaning it actually exists in the House universe, and the writers probably had the same intention with it.
> 
> Also, yes, House is based off of Sherlock Holmes, but somehow it still definitely exists in the House universe. At some point the phrase "No shit, Sherlock" is used, and while that may have been some kind of unintentional plothole, it establishes the existence of the Sherlock Holmes novels regardless.
> 
> ALSO, some recommended listening to go along with the fic: http://8tracks.com/captainlucifer/to-live-before-you-die


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